A Single Candle
by Talyn
Summary: All the darkness in the world cannot put out the light of a single candle. Mortals stand and fight against all odds, and champions will rise. This is either the story of mankind's finest hour or the the story of its last.
1. Welcome outlander, to our glorious hovel

Diablo, Kashya, the rogues, and all others belong to Blizzard Entertainment. No profit is being made from this publication. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Prologue: Welcome outlander, to our glorious hovel...**

"Sister, what news from the outside world?"

The exhausted rogue took a long drink from her waterskin. Pulling her hair away from her eyes, she looked up at her captain from the fallen log she was using as a seat. "Kashya, our outpost at the bridge is holding, but Flavie has recalled all patrols from the Cold Plains. There are just too many of the monsters out there – too many of our corrupted sisters. So many of us are dying out in the wilderness…"

Kashya knelt beside the young archer, her armored hand clasping the rogue's glove. "Take courage, Amalia. The battle is not over yet. We still hold this side of the river – the Blood Moor still lies between us and the monsters."

"Kashya, that's what I came to _tell_ you! Flavie and her teams are being attacked from both sides now. Somehow, the demons have gotten across the river – the Blood Moor is overrun!"

If Amalia had looked up, she would have seen a flicker of fear in her captain's eyes – by the time she looked Kashya in the face however, the older woman had mastered herself, and merely looked grave. Amalia continued her story breathlessly. "The road between the bridge the outpost… do you know that outcropping of rocks by the old shrine?"

"Yes," Kashya said slowly.

"When Melisse and I passed it, we noticed a tunnel at the base of the rocks, and there were Fallen all about. Melisse thought that perhaps the demons were coming at us from underground, so after we scattered the demons guarding the entrance, she went down to scout it out. I wanted to go with her, but she told me to come straight here in case… in case something happened to her…" The young warrior looked at her leader with terrified eyes, pleading for direction. "I didn't want to leave her, Kashya!"

"Hush now, child," Kashya said gently. "Melisse was right to do what she did, and it was a noble thing to risk herself. Besides, no need to give up hope – she's tough. It will take more than some Fallen to stop her."

_I'll have to step up patrols on this side of the river, now. And we're all so exhausted… I don't know how much longer we can keep this up._

Kashya looked down at Amalia, and forced a smile. "Rest, my sister. Melisse should be back tonight. Talk to Charsi, and she'll patch up that armor and restring your bow for you. Tomorrow, you and Melisse can bring a chest of healing potions and a few cases of arrows to the outpost. I'll write the instructions to Flavie myself."

Reassured, Amalia disappeared into the camp. Kashya, however, remained by the gate, staring out into the deepening twilight, and hoping against hope that her words of comfort hadn't been a lie. _There are so few of us left, now. Some of our most powerful champions lay slain under the Tristram monastery – and those that remained were too young and inexperienced to properly resist when the demons came at us from below. The fortress had become a deathtrap – I'm amazed that even this many made it out. So many were killed, or worse, captured._

Kashya's hopes dwindled as twilight turned to darkness, and the Blood Road disappeared into the deepening gloom. She adjusted her weapons, and turned to leave, but some stubborn part of her refused to give up on her doomed vigil. Her thoughts turned again to their defeat at the Tamoe Monastery. _I don't know what the demons did to our captured sisters, but Flavie's reports speak of women and girls utterly twisted, barely human. All because of my failure to protect us…_

Another part of her argued with that thought. All of the defenses had been based around an assault from the outside – how was she to anticipate a demonic gate opening in the catacombs below their very feet? She had done her very best, but the demons swept up out of nowhere, catching the rogues unawares – the majority were slain in the barracks, unarmed and confused.

_I refuse to make excuses. There was more I could have done – and while it is too late to fix my mistakes in the past, I will be damned sure that I won't make the same mistakes again_. She resolved to put up a notice of this new Den of Evil, so that the small army of mercenaries that passed through this fortress on a daily basis would have a real target.

She had fought back her distaste of the warriors, most of them crude _men_, because she knew that there simply weren't enough Sisters left to keep the demons at bay. And these warriors and mercenaries had gone out and fought and died on the Cold Plains, in the old Burial Grounds, and even in the Black Marsh itself. Many were killed, many more had grown weary of the never ending battle and returned to their homes, but there seemed to be no end to the stream of adventurers. And some had stayed, sacrificed their lives to keep this fortress standing, and so had earned her grudging respect.

Rumor had it that the Duke of Entsteig, knowing that this place was the final bastion before his own lands were threatened, had sponsored many of these men. Akara held out hope that the Duke, and the King of Westmarch as well, might march their armies east and help retake the citadel, but Kashya knew that they were too busy suppressing demonic activity in their own lands to weaken themselves further.

The moon had risen, shrouded by mists in the ink-black sky, and Kashya finally forced herself to admit that Melisse was dead or captured, and that there was no sense in exhausting herself further by staying up waiting for a return that would never come. A tear threatened to fall, and she blinked it away. There would be time for mourning after the Darkness had been driven away from the land. Until then… _but what am I going to tell Amalia?_

She was distracted from her grim thoughts by a shout from the sentries by the gates. "Lights, Kashya! On the road! A _lot _of them!"

Kashya was suddenly back in her element, grabbing a bow and quiver from a nearby rack and shouting orders to the women on watch. "Sound the alarm! Scramble all rogues to their positions! And somebody round up all the men who aren't too drunk to draw sword!" _Heavens help us…_


	2. Well met, noble paladin

**Chapter One: Well met, noble paladin.**

The lights on the road behaved erratically, first bunching up tightly, then scattering across the wilderness, then bunching up tightly again. Kashya held her bow low, keeping one eye on the road and the other on the encampment's defenses. The rogues had gone to their positions on the walls with practiced precision, and the small force of mercenaries were milling about the gates, armed to the teeth and slowly arranging themselves in a more-or-less straight line.

"You there – in the blue robes! Yes, you! Get up here on the wall, sorcerer!" Kashya barked orders all about her. "You three, with the spears – second row, behind the swordsmen! Does everyone have healing potions?"

There were shouts of "Yes," and "No," and one particularly insolent "you can give me whatever potion you'd like, Kashya!" which incited a burst of laughter and crude applause from the mercenaries and a few particularly daring rogues. She made a mental note to find out who had said that, if she and they survived the night, and give him a brief lesson in manners. Uncomfortably.

As the lights grew closer, the jokes and shouts grew quiet. Rogues nocked arrows to their bowstrings, and the warriors raised their shields. "Sisters," Kashya shouted, "empty your minds! There is only the bow, the arrow, and the target! Let go your senses and use your Sight!"

The lights grew closer and brighter, and the sounds of battle washed over the defenders. "Refugees," Kashya whispered. Her face hardened, and she addressed the warriors with a shout. "We must go to their aid – they are beset by demons! Form up, three rows, swords in front, spears in the middle, bows in the back…" but her voice trailed off. There was an excited chatter along the walls as a new sound came to them, echoing even over the battle cries of demons and the clash of weapons.

"Kashya, do you hear _singing_?" one of the rogues asked her incredulously.

…_Dominus vis est meus,_

_Victorius triumphantque._

_Depugnamus in nomen Tuum,_

Ferri mei Tuos sunt… 

As she heard the words, a wave of strength washed through her, and all about her she could see rogues and warriors alike standing taller and prouder, a lust for battle shining in their eyes.

The clouds over the moon parted and they saw on the Blood Moor an armor-clad man leading a small group of armed farmers, battling heroically against a vastly superior force of Fallen, and a handful of large, hairy Brutes. They kept the monsters away from the stumbling force of refugees, driving them back again and again, but with each advance, fewer and fewer of the farmers stood against the tide of demons. The armored man shouted the words of the chant in a loud, clear voice that never faltered, even when the blows of the demons glanced off his shield and armor.

The hymn echoed through her soul, and she fired an arrow from her bow without thinking. It exploded into lightning as it arced over the melee, and burst with a charged crackle when it hit a Fallen shaman in the chest. Kashya shouted something then, a wordless challenge, and the defenders at the gate of the encampment charged into the mass of demons while arrows filled the night sky. The monsters, intent on their quarry, were thrown into disarray and scattered into the wilderness. With a great cheer, the triumphant warriors descended on the bodies of the fallen demons, scavenging weapons and treasure while they congratulated each other on the decisive victory.

Kashya gave the order to stand down the alarm, and approached the gate to greet the new arrivals. In twos and threes, the battered refugees staggered through the gates. A woman clutched a young child to her breast, moving as quickly as her injuries would allow her. Others came behind – a boy carrying a bloodstained axe, too frightened and angry to mourn the loss of innocence, a proud old man who refused the rogues' help until all the others were treated, and many others. The rogues inside made places for them to rest. In the morning, they would continue their journey away from the Tamoe Mountains, towards the West Reach port, and across the Gulf to the relative safety of Westmarch.

The last through the gates was the armored man – he had lost his helmet in the final melee, and his ring mail coat was battered and bloodstained. His shield was on his back and his mace hung from his belt, and in his arms he carried a badly wounded man, one of the rearguard who had been struck down by the scimitars of the Fallen in the final minutes of the battle.

"This man needs more aid than I can give," he said to Kashya. The warrior-woman was struck by how young he was, and by the rings of exhaustion under his dark eyes. One eye was forced shut by a thin slash across his face, and other, more minor wounds showed all across his arms and body. Yet he still stood proudly, and in his eyes burned an endless determination. Across his chest was draped a tattered and bloodstained white tabard with a black cross emblazoned in the center.

_A Zakarum fanatic_, she thought to herself. _That explains the chant – those paladins work their own magic around their hymns and prayers. _"Akara will tend to him – lay him by the white tent with the other wounded," she said quietly.

Wordlessly, he knelt and gently placed the wounded man on a clean blanket by Akara's tent, and pulled a small vial from his belt. Uncorking the minor healing potion, he smeared some of the blood-red fluid on the man's wound and poured the rest down his throat. "That will buy him some time," he said simply.

Then he stood, pulled his mace from his belt, and turned to head back out into the darkness. Kashya caught him by the arm. "What do you think you are doing?" she hissed.

"Several of the men in my group fell while defending their families," the dark-haired warrior said thickly, fatigue affecting his speech. "Some might have survived. I'm going back out there to see if I can help them."

"You will stay where you are!" Kashya commanded. "Any who fall in the wilderness at night are lost – a fact you _must_ know, if you've made it across the Cold Plains with that group."

Kashya scowled as the young man blinked several times, finally focusing on her face. "We cannot know that," he argued obstinately. "They will certainly perish if no one goes to them."

"You will go out to your death! There are God only knows how many demons out there, and you've been wounded. When was the last time you slept?"

The paladin seemed to think about the question for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Three nights ago… we've been beset every time we stopped to rest."

Sensing that this man would not simply allow himself to do nothing, Kashya gently took his arm. "Stay here, warrior, and help with the wounded. I have heard it said that your prayers have healing powers – you have done much to help these people. Can you do a little more?"

The challenge put a bit of fire back into the man's eyes. He stood taller, and Kashya could see him lock away his pain and fatigue. "The Church of the Light is always ready to help those in need," he said. It would have sounded pompous if the words had not been said with superhuman determination. "Where can I be of most use?"

Kashya led him to center of the camp, where the wounded lay in rows as Akara and a handful of refugee healers tended to them. "What can I do?" the paladin asked.

"Pray," Akara said simply.

The warrior knelt to the ground and began a whispered incantation. As Kashya left, she felt a brief tingle in her body as the subtle power of the man's faith coursed through her. It stopped when she brought herself farther away, but even in those few seconds, she felt the aches and pains of the last few days fade slightly.

During the remainder of the night, she reorganized the watch on the walls, broke up a brawl between two warriors over a magical dagger that had been found on one of the demons, restocked her quiver, and ensured that two chests of healing potions were ready to be delivered to Flavie at first light.

As dawn broke over the Blood Moor, she returned to Akara's tent. The older woman was still in her blood-flecked healing robes, applying clean white bandages and red potions to the last of the wounded. In the center of it all, the Zakarumite still knelt, still whispering his devotion to the Light. As Kashya watched, Akara finished with the last man, and walked slowly and stiffly over to the young man. She touched him on the shoulder.

The armored man looked up painfully. "Is it done, then?" he asked, his words slurred and indistinct.

"Yes," Akara replied quietly. "Thanks to you, everyone survived the night."

"The Light be praised." And with those words, the man slumped over on his side, unconscious.


	3. A place of great evil

**Chapter 2:** **There is a place of great evil in the wilderness…**

As he gradually became aware of his surroundings, he became aware of a feeling of warmth and comfort that seemed at odds with the fear he had been living with for the previous week. The gathering up of the families from the surrounding farmsteads, and three-day running battle as he and his charges fled to the Rogue Camp, the wounds and fatigue he pushed aside by sheer force of will, all had taken too much of toll on him. His body ached even now, after… well, some amount of time, anyways. _How long have I been asleep?_

He cast his eyes about his surroundings. The young paladin was in some kind of tent – cramped, but comfortable enough. There were two other sleeping mats on the floor, with piles of blankets heaped upon them to set off the chill of early spring evenings. Though both mats had obviously been slept in recently, he seemed to be the tent's sole occupant, at least for the moment. At the foot of his sleeping mat was a large chest, and by the tent-flap was a stand with his ringmail tunic, armored boots, and round shield. Even with only a quick glance, it was plain to see that his armor, gear and – yes, there it was, his mace was lying by his side in case it was needed quickly, in an emergency – his weapons had been expertly repaired.

"Pity they didn't recover my helmet," he mused aloud, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. "Now I'll have to find another one…" He grasped his mace, wincing again as his sore muscles protested the sudden movement, and went to buckle it to his belt when he realized that not just his armor, but all of his clothes were also in a pile by the armor stand. They looked to have been washed, patched, and neatly folded, but the young champion was suddenly self-conscious, flushing at the thought of the Rogues' healer or another of the women undressing him.

He painfully clambered out of his blankets in order to recover his clothes, but it seemed that fate was going to have a bit of fun at his expense. Just as he was midway between blankets and clothes, the tent-flap opened and a graceful, blond-haired woman in leather armor stepped inside.

His face even more red than before, he reflexively covered himself. "Would you mind giving me a minute?" he rasped. "I'm not dressed here."

The woman's eyes flicked to him in surprise, and then she averted her eyes, blushing even more brightly. "Oh good, you're up. We were beginning to think that you'd never awaken. My name is, um, Amalia," she stammered. Though her tone was casual, she was clearly embarrassed, and she stumbled around her words awkwardly.

"Mercitus. And, ah, I'm awake now," the paladin said quickly, edging towards his pile of clothes. "Would you mind turning your back?" he asked almost plaintively. "I'd like to get dressed."

"I was just checking to see if your were awake… sorry! I'll, uh, I'll leave now." Desperately looking anywhere but at him, she scrambled out of the tent as fast as her dignity would allow her.

"Oh, you handled that very well, Mercitus" the paladin said to himself scathingly, furious at his embarrassment. As soon as the tent flap closed, the dark-haired warrior scrambled into his pants and undertunic, clipping his mace and his coin purse to his belt. He briefly considered putting on the ringmail armor, but his body still ached, and if they came under attack, he would know far enough in advance to get back into his equipment, so he contented himself with merely throwing his white tabard on over his head. With a satisfied eye, the Zakarumite briefly admired the needlework with which someone had repaired the tabard. The cross in the center was fully repaired with matching black thread, and all the holes and tears had been sewn up so that you could barely see they'd been there at all.

Mercitus stepped out of the tent and into the sunlight, glancing around the camp. It was actually larger than it seemed from the outside, protected on three sides by high palisades and sharpened stakes, and on the fourth by the rushing river. The bridge over the river was the only ford for a score of miles north or south, and on the other side of the bridge was the relative safety of the Westmarch Road, where the King's troops, marching from fortified hostels, still protected travelers and kept the monsters at bay.

The camp itself was filled with the sounds of warriors. What was unusual, at least to the paladin, was that there were as many women strutting around armed as there were men. In Kurast, as a rule, the only women who bore weapons were either Zakarum temple guards and paladins, or assassins. The idea of a female who fought like a man, with unmagicked blade and bow, was unusual, as were many things he found here in the Western Kingdoms.

The camp's interior had rows of large tents, all more or less identical to the one he just stepped from, with a larger, more permanent-looking structure in one corner. Judging by the metallic ringing and the smell of hot metal, that one building was a smithy, an armory, or both. Towards the center were several merchants vending their wares out of the backs of wagons, including weapons, armor, potions of dubious quality, and great quantities of beer and spirits.

In the far corner, against the river and as distant from the fortified gates and the noisy smithy as possible, was a larger tent and an open space dedicated to the tending of the wounded. He recalled with some dismay the weeping of the wounded as they lay, tended by an older woman, a priestess whose name he was sure he had been told, but could not recall. _I should go over and offer my services as a healer_, he thought absently, but his feet took him to the center of camp, where a bonfire was blazing to ward off the chill of the north wind.

Judging by the position of the sun, it was nearing midday, so the young warrior efficiently and piously performed a small devotional as he approached the leaping flames, thanking the Light for human strength and resolve, and rededicating his soul to the furtherance of the It's purpose.

There were several armed men lounging around the fire, nursing tankards of ale or tending to their equipment. One man gave him a lazy salute as he approached, but the rest were absorbed in their own conversations. Mercitus nodded back solemnly.

On the other side of the fire, the blond-haired woman from the tent was leaning against a tree stump, chatting absently with a short, swarthy man. Judging from his narrow beard, scimitar, turban and pointed shoes, he was one of the desert people from the Eastern coast. The man was sipping something from a small bowl as he talked. Mercitus sat down by the fire next to them, stifling a groan.

The bearded desert-man looked at him and his eyes widened in delight and surprise. "Well met, noble Paladin," he exclaimed, ducking to retrieve another small white bowl filled with a hot, brown liquid. This he passed to Mercitus, before adjusting his turban and settling down on the log next to him. Over the turbaned man's shoulder, Mercitus eyed the blond woman cautiously. Though younger even than he was, he judged by the well-worn armor and short bow that she was one of these strange woman warriors that had originally built this stockade. She smiled awkwardly at him, and then turned to strike up a conversation with a slender girl in blue robes.

Meanwhile, the Easterner was still exclaiming away. "It's not often we see one of your kind here in the West," he said amiably, sipping at his bowl. Following the cue, Mercitus sipped as well. He tasted the bitter drink coffee, well known amongst the desert people. It banished the last of his fatigue, and the warrior sipped it slowly while he listened. "My name is Warriv, and this," the shorter man waved at a few covered wagons lined up behind him, "is my caravan."

The paladin was pleased to find at least a small measure of familiarity. "Hail, Warriv. I'm called Mercitus. I see that you recognized me as a crusader – unusual. Though all these westerners follow the path of the Light, they only seem to recognize their own priests and bishops. Most have never even _heard_ of the High Council!"

"Yes, yes, we are far from your home, but I am not actually one of your countrymen. I actually hail from Lut Gholein. It is a beautiful place, a Jewel that rises from the desert sands."

"Ah." All about him was the ordinary bustle of militant existence. Swords and bows were being repaired, arrows fletched, and people shouted and jostled each other, but here there was none of the desperate fear he had felt out in the scattered villages. He grinned to himself. Here, at least, they were _fighting back_. "It sounds like quite a place, my friend. I hope to see it someday."

The caravan-master's face fell. "That, my friend, might take some doing. Since the Rogues have been driven from their monastery, the pass to the east has been closed. Until we can reopen the pass, no one will be able to make it through. Certainly not bearing enough supplies to make it across the great desert!" Warriv eyed the paladin shrewdly. "I suppose you heard of the tragedy that struck the town of Tristram?"

"I have," Mercitus replied grimly. Indeed, there was nothing else on the tongues of the men he had protected for the past weeks, the brutal slaying of all life around the Light-accursed monastery.

"Well, I then I am guessing that you are here to combat the evil that lurks in the wilderness. When you and your fellow adventurers reclaim the Rogues' old fortress, I can head back to Lut Gholein. If you are still alive then, I'll take you along." Though Warriv's tone was light, there was a bit of grim knowledge behind his black eyes.

It was the act of an instant to comprehend his meaning. _If I join those who go out and combat the darkness, my life may very well be ended by the time the Tamoe Pass is reopened. Thank you for the warning, my friend._ Aloud, the paladin said "Light willing, I shall have the honor of joining you on that day. And thank you for the coffee."

With that, he bade the desert merchant farewell, and, rising stiffly, he crossed around the fire. After a minute of pacing to loosen his aching leg muscles, Mercitus turned and began walking towards the large tent where the wounded lay. As he passed by the blond warrior and the young woman in robes, they both burst into girlish giggles, not meeting his eyes when he gave a confused half-bow in greeting.

He continued on, fighting the heat in his face, and all the more frustrated because he had no idea _why_ he was blushing.

* * *

Mercitus knelt beside the farmer he had carried in his arms during those last desperate steps at the end of their long flight. A quick glance at the man's injuries showed that through the blessing of the Light, and that healer woman's extraordinary combination of magic and medical skills, this man would soon be able to walk again and would probably fully recover. The paladin marveled at scar that stretched the length of his chest, and clasped the man's hand as he slept peacefully.

"When he awakens, I imagine that he will want to thank you personally for saving his life." Mercitus leapt to his feet when he heard the melodious voice in his ear, reaching for the mace at his hip. He quickly released the weapon when he realized he was facing a haggard-looking, middle-aged woman in simple robes of white and purple.

"You, ah, you startled me," the paladin said apologetically, recognizing her as the healer from the night before. "My name is Mercitus, my lady, a Knight of Zakarum," he intoned, bowing with the highest formal courtesy, as befitted the greeting of a senior priestess.

The healer smiled at this, and the fatigue lines around her face disappeared for a moment. Suddenly before him was a brief echo of the pleasant woman who had guided the Sisterhood before the tragedy at the monastery – and just as suddenly it was gone, and the exhausted woman in her place seemed all the more devastated by comparison.

"I am Akara, high priestess of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye," she returned with the same formal courtesy. "I welcome you, Knight of Zakarum." She looked about at the handful of the wounded that lay about her, and knelt beside young girl who tossed fitfully as she slept at their feet. "I'm sorry that we cannot offer you a more comfortable welcome," she said in a more normal tone, beginning her ministrations to the wounded child.

The paladin sat alongside Akara, cradling the bandaged head of the girl gently, and poured his will into her, mentally imploring the Light to ease her suffering. "You have been more than generous," he said quietly as the girl's cries turned into quiet whimpers, and then to a peaceful silence. "And, I think that when the man over there awakens, he will have you to thank far more than me. I am a poor healer, I'm sorry to say – my strengths have always been more to the taking of life than to its restoration."

Akara placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "In times such as these, we have as much need for warriors and crusaders as we have for healers," she said. "Indeed, I have a task for you."

The idea of a quest resounded in the depths of his soul, and suddenly Mercitus felt… almost _compelled _to respond. As though he were the vessel of one much greater. "Whatever you ask of me, it will be done," he heard himself saying.

"I knew I could count on you, Knight of Zakarum. There is a place of great evil in the wilderness, filled with shadowy creatures and beings from beyond the grave. One of Kashya's rogue scouts entered, and has not returned, and I fear she has been overwhelmed by the beasts within. I feel that these creatures are amassing for an attack against the encampment, and I cannot allow the demons a foothold on the Blood Moor. The river between this camp and the Cold Plains _must_ remain an impenetrable barrier. If you are sincere about helping us, please, help us cleanse this Den of Evil."

Mercitus marveled at this sudden burning impulse to crusade, and breathed deeply the cool air. _All right, Light, may my feet follow Your path. I will go where you lead._ "Lady Akara, it shall be done. If by living or dying I can help you, I shall."

"Light bless you, Paladin."

_It already has, Akara. It already has._

* * *

His feeling of euphoria came crashing down as soon as he stepped away from his tent, where he had donned his armor and shield, and moved towards the gates. On the main dirt trail between the bonfire and the fortified gates stood a tough-looking woman in gleaming chain mail armor. On her back was a bow made of black wood, on her hip was a long-bladed sword, and on her face was an expression of extreme distaste. She stood between the paladin and the wilderness beyond, staring him straight in the face as he approached.

"Welcome, outlander, to our glorious hovel. I am Kashya," she sneered in a loud voice. All around them, Mercitus became uncomfortably aware that conversations around them had ceased, and rogues, merchants and mercenaries alike all were listening in.

"I know you are here to challenge the evil that has driven us from our ancestral home. Akara seems to think that _you_ have been sent by the heavens to save us all, but know this – Akara may be out spiritual leader, but _I_ command the rogues in battle. It will take more than killing a few beasts in the wilderness to earn my trust."

The anger behind the words struck the paladin like a blow, and his face tightened with suppressed fury. "I thank you for your counsel," he said with cold courtesy, straightening to his full height and adjusting his ringmail coat. "Perhaps you have some advice on how to tackle this Den of Evil?"

Kashya's lip curled in disdain, and her fiery red hair whipped in the spring breeze as though possessed with the warrior woman's rage. "The demons in that cave have claimed one of my best archers. I wonder how _you_ might fare." And with that, she turned on her heel and strode away into the depths of the camp, leaving a dangerous silence behind her.

Mercitus looked around at the gawking bystanders. As his gaze swept over them, they all turned back to whatever business was engaging them before the rogue captain's outburst. The young warrior turned his back from them, and, clasping his mace in his right hand, he left the camp and headed into the demon-haunted wilderness.


	4. I will cleanse this wilderness

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has shown interest in this story! I'm pleased to announced that it has not been abandoned, but this chapter is both significantly longer and of very different content than the previous ones, so it has taken a long time to write. Real life hasn't been conducive to more work, either!

* * *

**Chapter 3: I will cleanse this wilderness**

The air was cool, but the young paladin felt a chill deeper than just the cold. Just outside the gates was the detritus of the running battle he had fought the night before – the bodies of slain demons lay scattered about, mixed with broken potion bottles, shattered arrows, and weapons battered beyond repair. The victorious mercenaries had already looted anything of value, including, the paladin was sure, any of the valuables his refugees had dropped in their flight.

_At least they could have had the decency to bring in the bodies of the two farmers who died within sight of the gates_, he raged internally, seeing a pair of battered human bodies lying on the road, just out of bowshot of the gates. Mercitus cast his eyes across the Blood Moor, scanning the flatlands for any threat, but during the daylight, the moor was still mostly clear. He then buckled his mace to his belt and approached the dead farmers. _I'll bring them to the camp so that their families can bury them, and then I'll go looking for this cave of monsters._

The two farmers lay side-by-side on the dusty road, their eyes open and staring at the uncaring sky. In their hands were iron hatchets, and they wore simple, padded suits of armor. Armor that had proven to be all too weak against the blows of the enormous Brutes that crashed into their rearguard in the last minutes of the fight. The monsters' tremendous fists had lashed out, stunning these two men long enough for them to be borne down by a squad of Fallen and hacked to death as Mercitus and the rest of the rearguard fought for their lives.

Kneeling beside the nearest body, he touched the four tips of the cross on his tabard, murmuring the words of Spiritual Resurrection, the prayer that would allow their souls to rejoin the Light. As he opened himself up to the spiritual plane, however, a sudden shocking blackness fell across his soul and every instinct within him screamed "Danger!"

A sudden shiver ran through him as the corpse beside him reached up and seized his right arm. It's grip was numbingly cold and as strong as iron. The farmer's dead eyes stared blankly at him, his shattered jaw opened impossibly wide. A supernatural moaning filled with hate and a horrible hunger emanated from the dead throat. Surprised and panicked, the paladin tried to tear his arm away. The grip on his arm was impossibly strong, and by trying to rise, he only fell backwards, bringing the zombie down practically on top of him.

Feeling the dead fingers of the zombie's other hand reaching for his throat, the paladin bit back the fear and focused his mind on the Hymn of Might, the same prayer he had been chanting when he had been attacked the night before. Surrendering his fear to the Light, he felt a surge of strength and confidence, and with his left hand, he smashed the zombie right in its gaping maw with his small shield.

Exulting in the feeling of power, he pressed his advantage, rolling to get on top of the zombie, smashing it first with his mailed fist, and then with his shield, and then with his fist again. The thing lashed its own fists at him and tried to bite his hand, but Mercitus held the upper hand, pounding it into the dust of the road until whatever dark spirit animated the former yeoman was banished, and the body lay still.

Breathing heavily from the adrenaline rush, he staggered back to his feet, only to see the second farmer standing over him, arms raised to deliver a crushing blow. The paladin threw up his shield to deflect the attack, but it never came. Instead, the zombie staggered sideways, an arrow sprouting out of its shoulder. Mercitus, not taking a second to wonder at his good fortune, took the time to pull his mace from his belt. By the time it was out, however, a second and third arrow had thudded into the former human's chest, and with a horrid sigh, it slumped back down to the ground, dead for a second time.

Even as the undead collapsed, Mercitus spun to find the source of his assistance. Standing on the road, perhaps thirty yards behind him, was the young woman who had giggled at him earlier that day. There was nothing girlish or lighthearted about her expression this time, however. The softness and cheerful air that the paladin had noticed in her face that morning was gone. Instead, her face was cold and grim, and she held an arrow nocked to her bow in a way that proved that she was, indeed, a veteran warrior. She had pulled back her blond hair behind her head in an elaborate ponytail, which kept it out of her eyes and away from the leather backpack on her back. A quiver of arrows hung from her belt.

"Are you all right?" she called out, eyes alert for further threats.

"I am uninjured," Mercitus replied. "Thank you for your timely assistance."

This back and forth was followed by an long, tense silence as the paladin and the rogue stared at each other from thirty yards away. Both grew uncomfortable with the silence, and looked away – Mercitus to the horizon, and the woman to the ground. Moving with near-silence, she approached the two bodies at the paladin's feet, and then, to the Zakarumite's horror, began rifling through their pockets.

"What are you doing, Rogue?" The young woman looked up at him guiltily, but then her eyes narrowed.

"I'm looking for anything that we can use, _Paladin_," she said defensively. "In case you failed to notice, there are hordes of demons out in the wilderness, all of whom would like nothing better than to _kill us all_! If one of these zombies has a potion, a ring, or a weapon we can use, then it would be damn foolish to pass it up, don't you think?"

"I _knew_ these men, woman! I sat with them around the campfire, and I fought beside them as they gave their lives. I am not going to sit idly by while you ransack their bodies like… like a…"

"Like a what? A mercenary? A monster? A rogue?" With a small, triumphant noise, she pulled a slender vial from a pouch on one of the zombies. "A healing potion!" She tossed it carelessly at the warrior, who, with his arms encumbered by mace and shield, barely managed to catch it without the fragile glass breaking. The rogue looked up and stared defiantly at the tiny vial the paladin was cradling gently. "Well?"

Mercitus looked helplessly at the potion vial in his hand, and then at the woman with the bloodstained hands, the woman who had just helped him strike a blow against the demons. "I don't like it," he said finally, but he tucked the potion into his belt nevertheless.

The rogue pursed her lips, and then accepted the hand back to her feet. There was another long silence, and then the rogue adjusted the bulky haversack on her back and began marching down the dusty road, away from the carnage at their backs. "I think we will all have to do many things we don't like before we can drive the evil from our lands, outlander." She turned and gave the conflicted warrior a glance over her shoulder. "Incidentally, my name is not 'Rogue.' It's Amalia."

The paladin smiled ruefully, and lengthened his stride until he was walking beside her. "Indeed, Amalia. I don't believe we were properly introduced back at the camp – it was rather awkward. My name is Mercitus, Knight of Zakarum."

His smile widened when he heard her laugh quietly. "Awkward doesn't _begin_ to describe this morning, O Knight of Zakarum. I don't know what I expected when I was told to 'check on the warrior from last night,' but… that… was _not_ it."

"I assure you, it was _far_ worse on my end," Mercitus rejoined with good humor, feeling his face heat up at the memory. "I don't remember much of what happened after I made it through your gates, and awakening to find myself stripped bare in a strange camp full of you western women was… beyond uncomfortable."

Mercitus noted that the grimness had left the woman's face as they talked, and he briefly wondered how such a cheerful spirit could have survived the troubles that had faced the region over the past months. Indeed, he saw a genuine sparkle was in her eyes as she teased him. "And then, of course, I have to go and make everything ten times worse by bursting in without any warning and catching you in your altogether…"

"Indeed! Don't you westerners have any idea of privacy?" He was grinning openly at her, enjoying the first conversation he'd had in weeks that didn't revolve around demons, fear, death, or the destruction of Tristram.

"_You_, mister crusader, were supposed to be completely unconscious! You had been wounded, and Kashya had said you hadn't slept for days. How was I supposed to know that you would recover so quickly?"

"One of the first gifts that those who serve the Light receive is the ability to recover from our injuries and fatigue at a far greater rate than most. With training, we can learn to pass the ability on to others."

The light of mischief in the rogue's eyes dimmed, and her expression grew more pensive. "Must be useful… I know everyone at the camp has been so exhausted lately. Flavie's people, at the bridge, have been pushed even harder."

"Yes, it allows us to continue the fight against evil for longer than we normally would… wait, which is Flavie? I recall speaking to a few of you warrior women when my group crossed the bridge the first time, a few days ago."

"Well, its about two days march to the bridge… Flavie is the senior lieutenant, the second-in-command after Kashya. She's a brave, tough, and good-hearted woman, a few years older than us. You'll like her. Actually, I'm going to report back to her right now. The only reason I was at the camp at all was to deliver messages to Kashya and to pick up some healing potions to replace the ones we've used." She gestured to the heavy-looking haversack on her back.

Mercitus' smile faltered, and he scowled at the road in front of him. "So long as she doesn't treat me like that red-haired woman at the camp did. What in the name of Heaven did I do to that woman to deserve her hostility? I've fought as hard as anyone, offering up everything I had in order to get those people to safety!" He scowled and rubbed the scar that crossed his forehead. Though it, too, had been tended by Akara while he rested, it itched when he didn't touch it, and hurt when he did. Still, he reflected, he was fortunate. Another half inch and it would have taken out his eye.

Amalia's expression tightened, and she turned towards her traveling companion. "I heard what she said to you, at the gates, and it was unfair. You've done more to help us than most," she said earnestly. "You'll have to forgive Kashya. She's been driving herself to the point of collapse ever since the disaster, and… well, she's a proud woman, and a powerful warrior. She never wanted to accept outside help, and she's ashamed to rely on outlanders to do her fighting for her."

The archer glanced at Mercitus again and allowed her lips to twist into a small smile. "Especially _men_. Kashya is not the greatest admirer of your sex, I'm sorry to say."

The paladin sighed. "I guessed as much. I know I should make allowances… and that I am being selfish. There are many others who have fought as hard as I, and they make no demands for honor or gratitude. Knights of Zakarum are taught not to seek recognition. or rewards, but to do our duty for the glory of the Light, rather than for ourselves." He scowled down at the dusty road, and then turned his glare at the moor around them. "Even so, it's just frustrating sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could – look out!" With the sudden shout, Mercitus put himself between Amalia and a sudden threat on the side of the road.

Amalia strung an arrow to her bow instinctively as the paladin pushed her aside, raising his shield against a sudden barrage of thorns. "Spike fiends!" she shouted, spotting where the vicious beasts had hidden themselves in a depression and letting loose an arrow. She twisted away from more thorns as they came flying towards her, firing more arrows at the beasts, and forcing them to skitter back behind what little cover their hiding place provided.

A sudden surge of emotion coursed through her, and she felt power flow from some external source into her muscles. Her arrows seemed to fly a bit truer, and bite a bit harder, than they ever had before. She fell back on her long training, opening her Sightless Eye in order to better perceive the battlefield. There were the spike fiends, six of them originally, less the one she had pinned to the earth with an arrow. They huddled in the ditch and readying another barrage… there was Mercitus, charging the depression with his shield up, an aura of might emanating from him… and behind her were four of the Fallen running towards her with their crude weapons raised! Somehow, they had been ambushed, and the Fallen were almost upon her.

She spun and loosed her readied arrow. Her Sight was true, and the arrow impaled the red-skinned demon. It collapsed with a weak scream on the withered grass of the moor, and the other three scrambled for cover, scattering so that her next two arrows narrowly missed. Behind her she could hear a shout of triumph and a series of sickening thumps as Mercitus threw himself into the nest of Fiends.

The Fallen were too close, however, and before she could nock another arrow they were upon her. She was still exulting in this new feeling of power, however, and she twisted away from their wild swings and smashed the closest one in the face with her bow. This bought her the half second she needed to drop the bow, pull a dagger from her belt and then ram the slender blade through one of the little demons' throats. The other two shrieked in panic and ran in opposite directions, which proved to be their downfall. As Amalia recovered her bow and shot one in the back, Mercitus came sprinting back over from the other side of the road and smashed the other across the head with his shield. Both monsters fell without another sound.

"Pfeh," the paladin spat. His shield and armor were scratched and cut from the thorns of the spike fiends, and there was a nasty gash right at the base of his throat, above the curve of his ringmail tunic. "Cowardly monsters – not much of a threat without their dark priests leading them. Are you alright?"

"More than all right, I think," she replied wondrously. "It was _amazing_, Mercitus… they came up at me, and I didn't feel any fear at all, I just felt strong, like I could fight harder and better than I ever could before…" Her voice trailed off, and then she looked at Mercitus shrewdly. "_You_ did that, somehow. Didn't you?"

The dark-haired warrior pulled a rag from his pack and used it to wipe blood and spikes from the head of his mace, critically inspecting the iron weapon for any dents or chips. "As I said before, with training, those who follow the Light can pass their gifts on to others. There are certain hymns, certain mental exercises that I can focus on, which allow me to do more than most men." The paladin finished inspecting the weapon, and, satisfied, slung it back on his belt. He began the same meticulous checking of his armor before he continued.

"When we got into the fight, I concentrated on the Song of Might. It's a hymn that allows me to fight longer and harder than otherwise could. I guess, since we were fighting together, you were affected, too. I'm sorry – I don't have much control over whom I affect."

Amalia rolled her eyes at the apology, and bent down to ransack the bodies of the Fallen. With a triumphant "ah ha!" she pulled out a small, bloodstained pouch. "What are you apologizing for? It was incredible! Flavie is sure to be able to retake the Cold Plains when you are fighting alongside us."

She emptied the pouch into her palm and counted the small gold coins. Since she was gloating over the money, however, she missed the conflicted expression on the paladin's face. "I, ah… I'm not heading for the bridge," he said carefully. He winced as her gaze shifted abruptly from the gold to his face.

"You're not?" she asked incredulously. "You're a paladin! Of course you are! What else could you be doing out here?"

"Akara has beseeched me to perform a mission for her," he said, looking past Amalia with a faraway look in his eyes. "I am on a quest to clear out this Den of Evil from which the beasts that haunt this land emerge. She has acted as a senior priestess of the Light, and I am honor-bound to fulfill her request, even unto my death."

"Ok…" she said, lifting a single eyebrow. "I think its time for you to take a break from this whole 'epic hero' thing. It's starting to affect your brain."

Mercitus blinked once, unamused, and shifted his gaze back to his traveling companion. "I assure you, I'm being quite serious. Nothing, and I mean _nothing_, is more important than the tasks that those blessed by the Light have put before us."

She gave him a small smile, but said nothing. _These Zakarum fanatics can be a little too much_, she thought to herself, _but at least this guy's heart is in the right place_. "Wait… Den of Evil? You mean the tunnel complex that Melisse and I found?" Her face hardened into an expression of controlled rage. "Haphaesto's hammer!" she swore, ignoring the shocked expression on the paladin's face at her language.

"I'm coming with you, then."

"You have your own task to perform, Amalia," he retorted, shifting his pack so that its weight pressed as far a possible from the wound on his neck. With a final roll of his shoulders, he continued trekking down the road, leaving the rogue to trail along behind him.

"Excuse me? _I_ was the one who found those tunnels. It was _my friend_ who went in there and didn't come out. Do you think I'm not going to help you destroy that thing?"

"It was _your_ high priestess who asked me to do this. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, it was _your_ captain who ordered you to get that backpack full of healing potions you are wearing to the outpost at the bridge," Mercitus argued, keeping one eye on the moor and the other on Amalia.

"_My_ instructions were to 'return and assist Flavie however I can,' and the best way I can think to do that is to keep the Blood Moor free of demons! What if you get killed in there because you are fighting alone? You might be our best hope!"

"What if we _both_ get killed, woman? We don't know what is in this cave, or where is leads. You would die still bearing your orders and your medical supplies. Your sisters at the bridge are depending on you – and if they fell because you were unable to get them what they need, that would be a far greater disaster for the cause of the Light than my death!"

Amalia glared balefully at the paladin, but didn't respond. Despite her desire to avenge Melisse, she could come up with no argument that could refute Mercitus' statement. The continuing tension made for a long and uncomfortable hike, as the sun continued its travel across the heavens. There was a long silence as the two of them made their way through the dust of the Blood Road. As the afternoon began turning into evening, both would occasionally try to start a conversation, but the attempts continued to fall flat, and for the most part the only sound was the muffled clank of Mercitus' armor and the rushing of a cold north wind as it swept over the moor.

The sun was only a sliver on the horizon when the two of them reached a fork in the road. One route led towards the ancient shrine, and the rock outcropping that housed the Den of Evil. The other went straight on to the bridge. A small copse of trees, an oddity on the mostly flat moor, marked where the two paths diverged. "I guess this is where we split up," the paladin said quietly, eying the two paths.

"Not just yet," Amalia replied. There was an urgent undertone to her voice. "Look of there – do you see that fire?"

"No… yes, I see it, now that you've pointed it out to me."

"Look behind the fire. What do you see?"

Mercitus squinted, not having the benefit of Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye's near-perfect night vision. Behind the fire was a large shape – a boulder? No, it moved. A Brute! Several Brutes, as a matter of fact, at least three of the enormous slabs of muscle and fur that served as shock troops for tribes of Fallen. "I see three Brutes," he said finally, pulling his mace from its loop on his belt.

"Right. And what do we know about Brutes and Fallen?"

Mercitus' face could have been carved from stone. "Where you find the first, you'll find the second."

"Exactly." The archer pulled an arrow from the quiver at her hip. All thoughts of awkwardness or resentment were banished as the two of them prepared themselves for the coming battle. "If we don't destroy this camp, these demons will roam the night. We'll never get any proper rest, and they'll be a threat to anyone else on the Moor."

The paladin took a last look at the camp, weighing the options. "You're right," he said. "Stay here. I'll attack the camp, and then retreat back to these trees. The Brutes aren't too smart, so they'll chase me wherever I go – you take them down with your arrows as soon as you have a good shot."

"What about the Fallen?"

"Fallen are cowards," the paladin declared confidently, hiding his nervousness behind an arrogant facade. "Without leaders or goons, they aren't ones for open fights. If we kill the Brutes, they'll scatter into the moor, and won't pose much of a threat."

Though he told himself to focus on the upcoming trial, Mercitus found himself fascinated, watching the rogue nibble on her lower lip as she mentally reviewed the plan. "Well, just be careful," she finally said.

He did his best to give a confident smile, though Amalia noticed that it was slightly shaky. "Of course. The Light helps fools and sages alike, but the wise man can make better use of his blessings," he said piously. "I go – and be alert for my return, for I doubt that any company will be friendly."

The sun was completely gone by the time he left the trail, and a gibbous moon was climbing in the blackening sky. Mercitus tried his best to clear his mind, to prepare himself for the battle ahead, but his mind kept returning to the people he had protected over the past weeks. They were farmers and craftsmen who abandoned the plough and wheel for the blade, who were forced to leave their homes to save their families. He thought about the rogues, that band of proud women who sacrificed so much but never gave in. This fight was for them, he decided. For Amalia and her lost friend, and for all those whose loved ones had suffered. It might not do much, but it would be the first strike against Hell. From now on, the agents of Heaven would be hitting back.

The paladin moved towards the flickering flames as quickly and silently as his heavy armor would allow. As he approached, he nervously hefted his flanged mace, taking comfort in its solid, iron weight. Even as his mind raced towards all the different ways his sudden attack could go wrong, he consciously surrendered his nervousness to the Light. "If Your will is to have me face the demons," he prayed fervently, "then grant me Your strength so that I may fight."

Another minute of slow creeping got him to just outside the camp. As he peered over a boulder at the scene, Mercitus was suddenly absurdly grateful for losing his helmet, so that there would be no exposed metal to reflect the firelight. Before him were the three hulking Brutes. They stood about the fire, clenching and unclenching their massive, gnarled fists. They would have stood almost nine feet tall if they stood fully upright, but their overly developed muscles in their chests and arms had them hunched over their short legs. It gave them a savage, bestial look that was compounded by their snarling, gorilla-like faces, all hidden under layers of wiry, matted hair.

All around them, standing only half as tall as the brutes, eight of the Fallen lounged or scrambled about. Next to their massive thugs, the Fallen seemed even more pathetic than they usually did, squabbling amongst each other or gesticulating with their crude scimitars and clubs. Still, eight to one odds were not ones to be undertaken lightly, especially when one of the Fallen bore the horned helmet and staff of skulls that signified his position as one of their dark shamans.

The shaman would be the first to fall, he decided. Besides the crude magic that they were able to wield, it was their leadership that kept the packs of Fallen together, that turned them from a nuisance into a threat. Also, when the shaman fell, the others would panic, buying him time to escape. The Brutes he had fought when he led the refugees to the Rogue Camp had been awkward and slow of thought, though swift and dangerous once aroused. He was going to count on that mental stumbling to get him away from this camp alive.

He mouthed the words of the Hymn of Might to himself, feeling the comforting strength seep into his tired muscles, and readied his mace for the charge. With a sudden howl, he leapt from behind the boulder behind which he had been observing the camp, and rushed into the thick of the melee with his shield up.

One of the Fallen spun around and slashed at him with its scimitar, more on instinct than out of any design, and Mercitus slammed his shield into the small demon's face, stunning it. It staggered back with a shrill cry of woe, and the sound seemed to rally its stunned compatriots. The brutes howled as one, a strange, unearthly warbling that chilled Mercitus to the core. Still, they were too slow to prevent the paladin from leaping over the campfire and smash the Fallen shaman at the base of his neck with his iron mace.

The dark priest was made of sterner stuff than his compatriots, however, and instead of crumpling, it merely shrieked in pain and conjured a ball of fire into its uninjured hand. Mercitus caught the blast right in the chest, and felt his body weaken as searing pain ran through his body like an electric current. His vision was obscured by smoke and tears and he struggled to lock away the pain and continue to fight. Mercitus could just barely see the Fallen pull a vicious, gleaming short sword from its belt, a far better weapon than Fallen usually carried. The blessing of might hadn't left him, however, and he lashed out viciously with the mace before the shaman could slash at him. He made contact at the shorter demon's horned helmet, and there was a brutal crack.

All around him, the other Fallen screamed in terror and scattered into the night, but the death of the group's leader didn't seem to have much effect on the Brutes, who had finally shaking off their surprise and were shuffling towards him, huge hands clenched into hardened fists. Mercitus raised his shield in defiance, but then reconsidered. Still swinging his mace threateningly, he began backing away from the fire and towards the road, where he could make a dash back to the cover of Amalia's bow.

One of the Brutes, quicker or more vicious than the others, suddenly lurched forward with surprising speed and lashed out with a punch the smashed through Mercitus' raised shield, bruising his arm, shoulder, and face and causing the Zakarumite to hear a sharp ringing in his ears. It stepped in for another blow, but Mercitus blinked away the pain and stepped in, bringing his mace around to strike at the monster's relatively weak knees. With a groan, the thing dropped to one knee, lowering its defenses and exposing its head to a blow from the boss of the crusader's shield. A final swing of the mace dispatched the beast, and then Mercitus took to his heels, sprinting as fast as his injuries would allow away from the camp. The two remaining Brutes lurched along in his wake, and the regrouped Fallen found their courage and came charging after him, their dim little eyes filled with blood lust.

_Injuries are slowing me down_, Mercitus thought savagely, _and the monsters are going to start gaining as I get more tired_. He desperately tried to focus his mind on a healing psalm, but the process was too slow, and he was growing exhausted. The half-mile between the camp and where Amalia lay in ambush seemed ten times its proper distance. In desperation, Mercitus clutched his belt in order to take the strain off of his arms.

Fresh hope arose when his fingers brushed the slender vial Amalia had found on the body of the dead farmer. Mercitus had given his last healing potion to the wounded farmer the night before, and had momentarily forgotten the scavenged elixir he had been carrying. _The Light provides_, he thought, chastising himself for his doubt. With a swift and practiced move, he crushed the glass cap of the vial and gulped the contents as if downing a shot of hard liquor.

Immediately, a feeling of warmth hummed in his veins as the magic of the potion did its work. Torn and sore muscles reknit, burned skin repaired itself, and the gasping pain of his injuries lessened. Breathing more easily, he put on a burst of speed that carried him to the fork in the road… and there was Amalia, a lean silhouette against the night sky, standing with an arrow nocked to her bow. _Will she be ready to help_?

_No time to wonder_, he thought furiously, spinning to face the two beasts pursuing him. With a defiant shout, he hefted his mace, and suddenly the world was filled with powerful fists and whistling steel. Mercitus traded blows with the Brutes for a grueling half-minute, absorbing their punches with his shield and armor and smashing into their thickly muscle-bound bodies with his mace. Blood mixed with filth on their matted hides, and Mercitus' muscles were howling in protest to their ill use, but man and monster fought with fanatic determination.

The Brutes hadn't counted on Amalia, however. As soon as Mercitus withdrew for an instant, she took advantage of the clear shot to put two arrows into the overly broad chest of one of the Brutes. With a sick gurgle, it collapsed at Mercitus' feet. Now faced with an even fight, the paladin became more aggressive, forcing the beast back as arrows whipped past the fight to sail past (and occasionally into) the gang of Fallen that were creeping up on the melee.

The Fallen's charge broke under the rain of arrows, and the survivors scrambled to find what cover they could on the moor. One particularly brave demon began weaving forward, trying to stay behind rocks and folds in the earth, chittering at his fellows to follow him. His courage, however, took him right under the mace of the paladin, who spared the Brute his attention for the half-second it took to catch a wild spear thrust on his shield and break the Fallen's neck with a well-placed swing of the mace.

When Mercitus twisted away from a final punch and smashed the last Brute in the head with all his might, the fight ended. The hairy monster collapsed with a gargling moan, and the remaining Fallen took flight, scattering into the moor. Two were caught in the back by more of the Rogue's arrows before the had made it to safety.

The battle was over, and the heroes had won.


	5. Interlude: A Night in the Wilderness

Author's Note: Well, its been, what? Three months since I updated this? How embarassing. Real life has not been the least bit conducive to creativity lately, sadly, and it seems that my muse just got back from an extended vacation. As you can read, I'm thinking of including some Romance in the story, but I worry that this might be a) too abrupt, b) too heavy-handed, and c) too much of a departure from the other chapters. Do you all think I ought to rework the first couple of chapters to bring it more in line with this new aspect of the story?

**Interlude: First Night in the Wilderness**

Later, sitting around the fire, Mercitus gingerly removed his armored coat, wincing at the bruises he felt underneath. The injuries he had received during the last twelve hours were not life threatening, but they pained him considerably. Still, he and Amalia had made it through the day safely, and for that the paladin murmured a little prayer of gratitude. These iron rings had saved his life on at least two occasions, but the battles of the day were clearly visible where the metal had become bent and torn. His shield was in even worse shape – he had used it as a weapon interchangeably with the mace, and his inspection revealed dents and cracks. He was going to need a new shield when he got back to the rogue camp, but he doubted he could afford one. What gold he had was nearly spent, and unless he was able to get more…

The paladin scowled at the pile of scavenged items that Amalia had gathered from the fallen bodies of the demons. He had looked on with distaste as the young woman efficiently ransacked the dead, lifting purses and creating a pile of weapons that might be worth saving. She had even found a quiver half-full of arrows in their camp, which she added to her arsenal with great delight.

Mercitus had refused her when she split the gold into two sacks, claiming half of the wealth she had looted was his. It didn't seem right, somehow – he fought for the glory of the Light, not for plunder. She shook her head, and kept the gold, though he noticed that she still carried it in two bags, "in case he changed his mind." Right now, the young woman was sitting cross-legged by the fire with a small chest in her lap, another treasure found hidden in the Fallen camp, and she was fiddling with the lock with her dagger and a slender iron rod. Mercitus, now free of his armor, set about to making some kind of meal from the contents of their packs and of the food that the Brutes and Fallen had left lying around in their camp. Most of it was spoiled and rotten, but there was enough mutton and hard bread to make for a better meal than field rations.

As he went about the familiar motions of making camp and roasting the mutton over the roaring fire, he meditated on a healing charm. Though mentally exhausting, the charm eased the aches and pains of the day, soothing the burns and bruises he had received. As the smell of roasted meat wafted into the night sky, Mercitus glanced over at his traveling companion. She had abandoned for the moment the iron chest, which lay tossed against the rest of the loot she had scavenged, still stubbornly unopened. The flaxen-haired girl was taking some fat cut from the mutton and was using it to oil her bow, checking the weapon for any flaws or cracks. The firelight tinted her hair with shades of red, an alloy of gold and iron.

He almost chuckled to himself – gold and iron, intermixed. It seemed like an excellent way to describe this woman. Ornamental and cheerful enough, but with an unyielding core. Even as the young man regarded her, he was shocked to hear her start to whistle, a cheerful tune that carried out into the monster-haunted wilderness, an almost mocking challenge to the ever-present darkness.

"How do you do that?" The question was out of the paladin's lips before his brain had consciously formed the thought behind it.

"Oh, its easy," Amalia said brightly, looking up from her bow. "You press your lips together so that there is only a little hole, and then move your tongue…"

"I know how to whistle!" Mercitus interrupted, impatience warring with amusement. "What I meant," he continued in a more somber tone, "was how do you manage to keep your spirits up like you do, even with all this misery and horror around us?"

She looked at him strangely for a second. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Mercitus shrugged uncomfortably and looked away, tending to the meat over the fire. When it became obvious that no other response was forthcoming, Amalia rested her bow on her knees and continued. "It's not like we have any other choice, you know?" The paladin was still failing to meet her eyes, but she pressed on regardless. "You look around you all the time, and if the only thing you see is the pain, then there's no point in carrying on, is there?"

The crusader finally looked up at her with a grim expression and sorrowful eyes. "You carry on because it is the right thing to do. You obey the tenets of your duty," replied simply, as if explaining something fundamental to a small child.

Amalia narrowed her eyes at him. "If duty is all you've got, then maybe you should be asking yourself what the point of that duty is!" the rogue said with some heat. "If you just bear the pain and the hate and the fear day after day with no joy or laughter, it eats you up. You become like Kashya, who doesn't sleep because she blames herself for what's happened, who pushes everything away except _more_ killing and _more_ pain. I don't want to live like that, _Paladin_. I want there to be a reason I get up in the morning. I want this to be a world that still has laughter in it, so there is still something left to fight for!"

"It just seems to me that there is precious little left to be laughing about," Mercitus replied bitterly.

"Perhaps you haven't been looking hard enough. I know you haven't forgotten how to laugh, warrior! I managed to get a smile or two out of you earlier today – don't try to deny it," she said with a challenging grin. "Come on," she cajoled. "Lay aside the 'grimly questing epic hero devotion to duty' for a few minutes and we'll talk about lighter things."

The paladin cut a few strips of meat from the roast, and passed a skewer of mutton and some hard bread over to the woman sitting beside him. "You aren't going to let this rest, are you?" he asked, though he was already pretty certain of the answer.

"Nope," she said cheerfully, spearing a bit of mutton with her dagger and popping it carefully into her mouth.

Mercitus resigned himself to his fate with good grace. "So, what do you want to talk about, then?" he asked, serving himself some food.

"I don't know. How about… hmm. What is the biggest difference between the Western kingdoms and your home?"

"The women," he said instantly. He then regarded Amalia with a look of absolute horror at his own response, and proceeded to flush a bright red when Amalia cocked an eyebrow at him.

"The best part about that response was that it required absolutely no thought on your part whatsoever," Amalia laughed. "So, ah, what _exactly _is it about us that makes us so different from the women in Kurast?" she asked teasingly, her suggestive tone indicating what _she_ thought his answer ought to be.

"I didn't mean it like… like _that_," the paladin said desperately, floundering about for a way to explain what he had meant without sounding like a complete fool. "I just meant that western women are more aggressive…" Her expression turned predatory. "No, wait! I meant, more like men… no, that's not what I meant either."

He could have screamed in frustration. Amalia was regarding him with poorly concealed glee. "What I am trying to say is that with most women in Kurast, we wouldn't be having a conversation like this. Most women are not warriors, and those that are come from the ranks of the Zakarum crusaders and temple guards. I certainly wouldn't be talking like this with you if you were a paladin – and you would not be telling me to 'talk of lighter things.'"

Mercitus twisted his lips into what was almost a wry smile, regaining control of his embarrassment and frustration. "You may not believe this, but one of the reasons the High Council was willing to let me crusade despite me relative inexperience was because I'm a little too light-hearted for most of the priests. I have a, uh, a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker."

"You're right," the rogue agreed decisively. "I don't believe you. Not that you are an unkind or unpleasant man, but a rebellious troublemaker?" She gave a decidedly unladylike snort. "I don't think I've met anyone who is quite so serious and dedicated all the time."

"It is all relative to our experience, perhaps. Besides, you haven't seen me at… well, to be frank, I've been surrounded by fear and despair for months, and up to my knees in blood and death for the better part of three weeks. I've been badly wounded, lost, exhausted, and I've had people – good, brave, Light-fearing people – die under my care and even in my arms. It's been wearing me down," he admitted honestly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yours is the first real smile I've seen since the disaster at Tristram. The Light has been with me, and so far I've gotten through and done what good I can, but it never seems to end."

His frustration had bubbled to the surface again, and Amalia laid a gloved hand on his arm without thinking. "Hey," the rogue said softly. "You've saved the lives of all those people who made it through our gates last night. I've seen you jump into a nest of monsters and demons and defeat them all in the time it would take most people to gather enough courage to even face them. No one doubts your courage or your dedication."

"Besides," she said casually. "I managed to get a smile or two out of you earlier today, so I guess all that cheerfulness wasn't being wasted after all." She leaned into him, smiling. Mercitus turned his face to hers and regarded her intently; Amalia noticed that his eyes were dark, so dark that they were almost black

And suddenly, those eyes had a brief flash of panic and an even briefer flash of something else, and the paladin gently disengaged his arm from under her hand. "We will need rest if we are to be at our best tomorrow," Mercitus stated formally. The casual tone had vanished, and his voice had once again picked up the formal cadence he had used earlier that day.

Amalia averted her gaze to the fire, but not before the paladin saw hurt and confusion in her expression. There was a long silence before Amalia spoke. "Who will keep watch?" Her tone was professional; there was no hint of the mischievous teasing that had laced her voice a few minutes before.

"I shall ward the camp," Mercitus replied, efficiently laying out two bedrolls next to the fire. "Any demon or beast that comes within a hundred yards of the fire will awaken us, and the wards themselves should keep at bay weak-willed monsters."

The paladin threw another log on the fire, wincing as his wounded shoulder protested the sudden move. "We will be able to sleep without fear of… what are you _doing?_"

"Getting ready for bed," Amalia replied crossly. While Mercitus had been busy with the bedrolls and the fire, the rogue had removed the boots, leather armor, and practical deerhide pants she had been wearing, and was now clad only in a flimsy leather vest and brightly colored loincloth. A loincloth, Mercitus couldn't help noticing, that was draped across her hips in a way that left _very_ little to the imagination. Even as he gaped in astonishment, her hands went to the leather straps that kept the vest in place and began unworking them.

"You can't… you aren't going to sleep like that, are you?"

Amalia gave him a look of utter disdain. "Well, I'm certainly not going to sleep fully dressed to satisfy some puritanical obsession of yours!" she snarled. With quick, angry motions, she pulled the vest entirely off. Mercitus got a glimpse of modest breasts before he spun on his heel and stared resolutely out into the moor, blushing so hard it felt that his face was on fire.

Even as he turned, he chastised himself for his discourtesy. "You certainly have the right to wear whatever clothes you wish to bed," he said stiffly, doing his best to banish from his mind the image of his traveling companion, her eyes flashing with anger while the shadows from the flame danced across his body. "I apologize if I have offended you."

There was a rustling of bedclothes and a quiet sigh. Amalia's voice came far quieter now, from somewhere on the ground by the fire. "No, its all right. I'm not really mad at you… I just thought…" She hesitated. "Well, its not important what I thought. You can turn around now, I'm covered up."

Mercitus glanced over his shoulder to see her up to her neck in blankets to ward off the chill. Her deerskin pants had been folded up to make a pillow, and her bow and arrows were in easy reach. "Aren't you going to get some sleep yourself, paladin?"

Mercitus reflected to himself that it would not do to go to bed with the images of his companion still vivid in his head. "I think I shall pray for a while, first. I shall need all the strength the Light can give me for the battle tomorrow. Goodnight, Amalia."

The paladin removed his own undercoat as Amalia shifted in her blankets behind him, getting comfortable. The padded jacket and shirt were specially designed to prevent chafing from the metal rings and to protect the body from blunt impact, but they were starting to get a little threadbare, and had torn in two places where the ringmail armor had been broken. He shivered briefly, both from the cold north wind on his bare chest, and from the thought of how close he truly had been to death this day, and with the knowledge that he would face even greater perils on the morrow.

Putting aside his pain, his discomfort, and the (not unpleasant) distraction of his traveling companion, Mercitus knelt by the fire and began to pray. He did not look up again for a long while, and didn't notice Amalia's eyes on him as the ritual words rolled off of his tongue. When he was done, he finished with a simple "Amen," and wearily collapsed into the blankets. Both heroes were asleep within minutes.

Second Author's Note: I always thought that the official Blizzard Rogue artwork (http/www.frognet-lan.de/pastor/diablo/chars/rogue.gif, used without permission) had the Rogue in apretty impractical outfit. I mean, its great eye-candy, but not realistic in the slightest. Amalia's nightclothes are both an homage to and a gentle parody of that memorable outfit.


	6. Evil dwells within this cave

Author's Note: Sigh. Military academies have nightmarish schedules. I apologize for the obscenely long waits between updates. Hopefully I'll be able to be more reliable in the future, but I can't make any promises. On the other hand, this is the longest chapter thus far, over twelve pages, so I hope it was at least worth the wait.

**Chapter 4: Evil dwells within this cave**

_The man lay back comfortably. His armor and weapons were gone, but he hardly noticed their loss. As he reclined, he gazed at the woman, who suddenly appeared but had always been there, as was always the case in dreams. For this was a dream, he was certain, for in reality his traveling companion would never have stood there clad only in the brightly-dyed leather loincloth with an inviting smile and with firelight dancing on her bare skin and her hair tinted red as blood._

_"Don't you think I'm beautiful?" she asked. He could only nod in response. And she was indeed beautiful, he realized. Perhaps not so physically attractive as some of the other rogues, or some of the girls he had known back in Kurast in his youth, but as she began to dance in front of him he forgot that he'd ever seen another woman._

_The play of shadow and light on her body as it rocked sinuously in front of him was mesmerizing, and the man almost didn't notice when she started to change. The healthy glow of her skin became pale, and suddenly open wounds appeared on her neck, her shoulders, and her thighs, bleeding and staining the pale flesh crimson. She didn't seem to notice, still dancing and laughing seductively at him, and he couldn't look away, couldn't tear his eyes off of her as horrid spines of blood-soaked bone erupted from the wounds, and her beautiful hair vanished to a bleached white scalp. The woman danced towards him, leaning over him with her body chalk-white and twisted and utterly exposed, and she leaned over him. Her eyes were entirely black and empty, and her lips and teeth were bloody when she smiled at him._

_"Don't you think I'm beautiful?" she purred into his ear, rubbing her body against his and the man wanted her but she was so cold and it was wrong and then she bent down to kiss him…_

"No!" With a gasp, Mercitus sat upright in his bedrolls, clutching at his face. The cool morning air immediately chilled the sweat on his forehead and chest, shocking him into full awakening and banishing the aftereffects of the dream. Even as he struggled to remember it, the images faded away, leaving a lingering sense of unease.

"What is it?" came the response from the other side of the dead fire. Even though the voice was thick with sleep, there was a flurry of graceful motion and the rogue was already on her feet, long slender daggers in each hand.

Mercitus automatically looked away to preserve her modesty, and found himself staring at one of the large boulders that surrounded the campsite. He hadn't noticed last night, but the rocks around the fire had been painted upon, with the graffiti of the Fallen showing symbols of their dark gods and crude stick figures of men and animals being tortured and killed. "Just a nightmare," Mercitus said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I am sorry to have woken you." _No wonder I had nightmares,_ the paladin thought to himself as he examined the profane symbols on the stones. _This place has been fouled by evil. I'm surprised I managed to sleep at all_.

"Better to be over-alert than caught unawares, I guess," she muttered, sliding the daggers into sheaths strapped to her bare legs. While the paladin had his back turned, she shrugged into the leather vest and deerskin pants.

She was just strapping the dagger sheaths on over her pants when her companion spoke again. "Are you clothed?" Mercitus asked, still staring resolutely away from the camp.

Amalia scowled at his bare back, and then gave it up as a waste of time because he wasn't going to turn around until she said that she was. "Yes, I am. Are we going to go through this every morning?"

"I don't know," the paladin replied shortly as he turned around. "Are you planning on spending any more nights out in the wilderness with me?"

The rogue opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and wordlessly went about packing up the camp. While Amalia rolled up the bedclothes, he threw the ragged undercoat on over his head, and then began buckling his ringmail coat to it.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to pray for a moment before we set out," Mercitus said quietly, eying the crossroads with some apprehension.

"Yeah, sure, go ahead." Amalia leaned comfortably against one of the graffiti-covered boulders with the iron chest in her lap. As Mercitus faced the rising sun and knelt humbly before the dawning light, she casually detached her lock pick from where it was strapped on the inside of her arm and began fiddling with the lock again.

Mercitus let the ritual words roll off of his tongue, praising the Light for granting to men the freedom to choose between good and evil, and praying for the wisdom to make the right choice. He thanked It for the power to stand against the encroaching darkness, and asked only for the continuing strength of body and mind for as long as he was needed as Its instrument in the world. He asked for an end to confusion and fear, so that he might overcome the selfish demands of the individual and embrace the greater glory of the Light as the highest good.

And he _refused_ to be distracted by the small satisfied noise his companion made as she bypassed the lock on the chest, ruthlessly quashing the errant thought that informed him of other ways to evoke that sort of noise from her.

He finished the prayer and got to his feet, reclaiming his pack and weapons only to find Amalia grinning broadly as she tossed her new treasure back and forth. It was a scepter, a steel rod with fine gold engraving. Its heavy head set with a large red jewel. Mercitus gaped in astonishment as she twirled it deftly in her hands so that the gem reflected the morning light. Though it seemed to be merely a bauble of the nobility, it somehow reminded Mercitus of the war rods wielded by the most senior paladins, and indeed it almost seemed to hum with the same kind of power.

"What do you think this might be worth, Paladin?" Amalia asked, admiring the gold filigree in the handle.

"You might very well have a treasure there beyond all value," the young man replied gravely, reaching out his hand towards her. "May I see it?"

She looked at him suspiciously for a second, then shrugged and handed over the scepter. "Sure, I suppose," she muttered. She had a sinking suspicion that the gleam in her traveling companion's eyes meant that she would not, in fact, get to bring this new loot back to the rogue camp. As Mercitus started swinging the scepter about like a mace, twirling it faster and faster through a complicated routine, she sighed as she watched a lifetime of bragging rights disappear right before her eyes.

Still, the sheer unadulterated joy on his face almost made up for it. He was grinning widely, and it seemed like the strain he had been bearing for the past weeks eased briefly. "By the Light…" he said to himself, awestruck.

"Do you and the scepter need a moment alone?" Amalia asked archly.

"This rod is unbelievable," the paladin enthused, oblivious to Amalia's sarcasm. "Not only has it been balanced as a weapon, but it has been reinforced with magic and imbued with some kind of spiritual power. Its like I'm on hallowed ground… I can feel the Light more closely, and can call upon more of Its power." With a warrior's fierce smile, he shouted out the words of the Hymn of Might while he raised the scepter to the heavens. "_Dominus vis est meus! Ferri mei tuos sunt!"_

Amalia once again felt her load lighten as the power of the Zakarumite's faith flowed into her, stronger than ever before, and she felt the urge to find those who would bring harm to the weak. She was going to crush them in a clash of arms so that they would never menace the innocent again…

At least, until Mercitus let his focus abate and the enchantment ended. As her heart rate slowed back to something closer to normal, Amalia looked at the scepter with new respect. "That's quite a rush, Mercitus."

"This weapon is truly a gift from the Light." With a practiced movement, Mercitus slung the scepter in a loop on his belt. "With your permission, I'd like to wield this when I cleanse the Den of Evil."

Amalia was so bewildered she almost laughed aloud at the question. "My permission! What do you need my permission for?"

"Well, it is your treasure. You got it from that chest on your own. I certainly have no claim to it."

Amalia briefly considered arguing with him, considered explaining that it was his fighting skill and courage that got them the chest in the first place, but she rejected the notion as time wasting. Instead, she decided to deal with it in terms he would understand best. "It's a gift, O Champion of the Light." She desperately racked her brain for the archaic phrasing she'd need if she was going to pull this off. "For even as thou are defending my sisters, thou art advancing the Cause of the Light. Take this blessed weapon and get thee hence! Combat the darkness, knowing that the prayers of the Sisterhood go with thee."

She silently thanked the Light she didn't have to use that kind of language every day – talking like that had always given her a headache, one of the reasons that she'd joined the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye instead of one of the more traditional women's Orders. Still, it was nice to know that all her childhood schooling hadn't been completely forgotten.

Her words certainly seemed to have an electric effect on her companion. Before she realized what was happening, he knelt at her feet with a crash of metal armor, and held the scepter in front of him like a talisman. "I accept thy gift and thank thee," he thundered, the formal cadence and archaic language coming as naturally to him as ordinary speech, "and I do hereby swear upon the Cross of Zakarum that I shall endeavor to the uttermost limit of my strength to perform the charge to which thou hast bestowed upon me. Amalia, so long my spirit persists in this body, I shall ever be thy champion, thy protector, and thy crusader. Light bless us all."

Amalia did her best to suppress a smile. After all, it wouldn't do to make light of the situation when the paladin was in such deadly earnest. "Then arise, Champion of the Light, and undertake thy quest!" _These Zakarumites are definitely a bit much. Nobody should be so intense all the time._

She almost bid him goodbye, but couldn't quite get the words out. Instead, she settled for composing her features when he rose to his feet, and solemnly nodded to him before they grabbed their respective burdens – he taking his pack and the scepter, she the gold, the bag of healing potions, and the gleaming short sword scavenged from the Fallen shaman. Mercitus faced north and stared off into the distance at the black speck that was the ruined shrine marking the Den of Evil, and Amalia turned towards the main road leading eastwards to the fortified bridge where Flavie and her rangers were entrenched.

"This is where we go our separate ways," she said finally.

"Indeed," he replied.

There was silence then, and it grew thicker as both looked upon their respective paths. Finally, the paladin shifted his pack and started to march towards the distant shrine. Amalia turned her head to watch him go for a few moments.

Before she truly understood what she was doing, she was running after him, and caught him in a few breaths. When he turned to face her she clasped his hand and gripped it tightly. "Be safe," she entreated, though it came out more like a command.

Mercitus smiled tightly. "I shall endeavor to do so. Light be with you," he murmured, and he gave her gloved hand a small squeeze before releasing her. The rogue pulled back and coughed self-consciously, fingering her belt nervously as her companion turned once again towards the north.

Amalia watched him go with her head held high, though a small quiet fear settled itself comfortably in her stomach and didn't let up even when she turned eastward and started her own trek. She didn't see him turn to glance at her over his shoulder.

The sun was nearing its zenith by the time Mercitus reached the rock outcropping. All morning the paladin had been alert for demonic threats, but the Blood Moor was still relatively peaceful during the day, with only the mournful music of the wind and some distant birdsong to distract him from his thoughts. He had been told there was an old shrine marking the entrance to the Den; once he reached it, however, it took a second glance for him to recognize it for what it was. He had been expecting a formal stone edifice similar to those erected throughout Travincal and in the Akame jungle, not a small granite slab covered with half-melted candles.

Still, there was no mistaking the subtle aura of power emanating from the sacred stone. Once Mercitus opened his awareness to the spiritual plane, the sanctified stone provided an odd spiritual counterpoint to the foul aura emanating from the low-hanging cave mouth just visible in the outcropping beyond, a single note of angelic power in a symphony of sin. There was a single candle still lit amidst the dozens that had burned out. Even as Mercitus approached the shrine, it started to dance and flicker, burning brighter the closer the paladin came.

Those who prayed at these shrines added a bit of power to the old stone, power that could be tapped by those in great need. Over the years, shrines became like wellsprings of divine power that could be tapped if one knew their secrets, able to grant powers beyond the reach of most mortals. Mercitus hesitated over the shrine, debating whether to access the shrine's power or leave it be so that other champions with a greater need could use it. He finally decided that he had best not look askance at a gift from the Heavens, and let his hand drift down over the candle as he murmured the ancient words that would allow him to channel the divine power locked within.

Immediately the candle flared up impossibly brightly and then went out. The paladin blinked the bright spots away from his vision and peered at the crimson rune that appeared on the stone. "Shrine of Wisdom," he read aloud. "You feel more skillful."

Mercitus focused his mind on the Hymn of Might, and was pleased at how easily it came to him now. Between the power of the scepter and the shrine, he felt like his abilities had increased four-fold, and, thus bolstered, he confidently raised shield and scepter ducked through the cave mouth and into the Den of Evil.

* * *

Mercitus let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Sputtering torches had been set into the rough wooden walls of den – convenient for him, to be sure, but also unsettling. Fallen generally wouldn't go to the trouble of keeping their lairs well-lit, so the torches indicated some sort of higher organizing power or greater intelligence at work. The entry area seemed to be a flat natural cavern, artificially enlarged, with tunnels sloping off in two directions, both heading down deeper into the earth. The ceiling was relatively high, enough so that Mercitus could stand fully erect and still have room to swing his scepter over his head – another indication that beings other than Fallen lived in these tunnels. 

The entire complex gave off a subtle and odious smell, a reek that seemed to tell you that these tunnels were created only for evil purposes. It set the mind to thinking of torment and madness, and awakened that small animal part of your soul that warns you of danger. Mercitus, however, was still flush from the strength and confidence stemming from the Hymn of Might, and exulted in the adrenaline rush of the fear, letting it feed into his strength. He walked with confidence towards the closest tunnel ready to face whatever evil was there.

He wasn't disappointed. No sooner had he left the passageway and entered a small, dim room than the stench of death assaulted him and a half dozen walking corpses lurched at him, their cold rotten hands reaching for his throat. Mercitus merely grunted and hurled himself into their center, crushing the head of one with a well-placed shield bash and lashing out and striking another with the head of his scepter. Both crumpled to the ground, and then Mercitus was buried in a forest of clutching arms and decayed fingers.

The four zombies were stronger than they had been in life, but not as strong as an experienced warrior with divine Might coursing in his veins. The paladin threw them back, and then fended off their clumsy, powerful blows with his shield as he smashed the rod into their heads and arms. They went down one by one, flopping on the foul ground like a landed fish for a few seconds before stiffening into true death. Mercitus ducked a last punch and spun his weapon in an arc, connecting with the final zombie's chest with such force that the foul thing collapsed to the ground in two pieces. The entire battle was over in less than a minute.

Still flushed with his triumph, Mercitus paused to take stock, breathing hard. He had been hit only once, a strong blow that had cuffed him on the side of the head. There was a large tender spot by his right eye that would turn into a fist size bruise in a few hours, but other than that he had made it through the melee unharmed. His shield was even more dented and cracked than it had been – the paladin made a mental note to get another one as soon as he could – but his new scepter was almost completely unharmed.

He was about to continue down the passage, deeper into the earth, when he thought of Amalia looting the bodies of the dead farmers on the road. He scowled, and tried to put it from his mind, but he couldn't help but think that if these creatures had a weapon or a potion he could use then it would be an utter waste to pass it up.

Mercitus grimaced, but hung the scepter on his belt, and knelt to search the bodies of the zombies. He rifled through their rotten pockets, still filled with grave earth and reeking of foulness and decay. One of the zombies still had a heavy broad sword in his belt, but closer inspection showed it to be cracked and dull, so Mercitus left it behind without a second thought. The final zombie, however, had a heavy pouch tied to its ankle under its tattered boots. When Mercitus opened it up, there was the dull gleam of gold in the dim light, and he thought he saw the flash of a tiny gemstone buried amongst the coins.

The paladin tucked the pouch into his belt, then took it out again in disgust and stared at it. He weighed it in his hand, and thought about the precious few coins he still had left in his own pouch, and thought about the cost of repairing his weapons and armor, especially his new rod. Finally, feeling like the worst kind of looter, he tucked the money into his belt pouch and pulled out his rod again. "Light forgive me," he muttered to himself.

_Perhaps_, he thought to himself, _I can donate any of the wealth I don't use to the Sisters to help them in their fight…_ Before he could finish the thought, however, his ears caught the faintest trace of a muttered conversation. _A woman's voice?_

He raised his shield in a defensive position and crept through the darkened tunnels, all senses alert for an ambush. The tunnels were getting narrower as he went deeper into the earth, but they were still broad enough for a single man to stand and fight and high enough for a Brute to traverse. Even as his way grew darker and more threatening, the sense of power urged him on from within, to go ever farther and faster, to put an end this evil once and for all.

One last turn brought Mercitus into a relatively brightly-lit room, filled with the crude pallets and fire pits of a Fallen encampment. A handful of the red-skinned monsters lounged about, chittering to each other in their crude language, but what grabbed his attention was the tall, pale-skinned woman standing in the midst of their camp. Her hair was matted and filthy, with traces of a vibrant red showed out through the dirt, and her clothes were little more than rags that barely served to cover her body, but she held herself like a queen, and she hissed at the little monsters that clustered at her hips in their own tongue. Even more surprising was that they hissed back threateningly and waved their crude weapons at her, but they moved to obey, even the staff-wielding shaman.

There were easily a dozen of the little monsters in the camp, and, judging by the number of bedrolls and firepits, there were probably another score or more that could arrive at any time. Even against those odds, however, Mercitus felt confident that he could defeat them all – Fallen were cowardly beasts and not terribly effective fighters, and even their dark shamans couldn't stand against him in an open fight. The woman was the only variable – while she didn't seem armed, there was a certain air of menace about her, of violence and rage barely restrained, that put him on edge.

He decided to give the monsters a chance to surrender, though he doubted they would take it. With Might active, Mercitus stepped into the light and held his shield in front of his body as he shouted at the scrambling beasts. "Halt in the name of Zakarum! Thou hast but one chance to escape this pit with your life, and that is to set aside your weapons and flee this place immediately!"

His sudden appearance caused pandemonium in the crude camp. The monsters scattered away from him, grabbing whatever weapons lay about them, and they gathered around the farthest fire pit, where the milled about each other nervously, looking at their shaman for guidance. The dark priest raised himself to his full height, puny though it was, and gestured at the paladin with his skull-topped staff, but none of his followers seemed eager to charge. The priest conjured a ball of fire then and launched it at Mercitus, but the paladin stepped aside and deflected it away contemptuously, ignoring the brief pain as the heat was transmitted through the shield.

"I shall give thee one last op-" Mercitus shouted, but had to duck aside as an arrow flew by his head, missing his face by inches. The pale woman had somehow produced a bow and was holding it expertly, though she seemed to have expended her last arrow in the near miss.

"Kill him!" she shrieked. Her voice was hoarse and rasping, like she'd spent a lot of time laughing or screaming in the past few days. The Fallen looked about each other, and then raised their swords and clubs and scrambled towards Mercitus as fast as their little legs could carry them, their shaman hurling another ball of fire over their heads.

The paladin ducked back into the tunnel as the little demons charged after him, letting the fireball explode harmlessly against the earthen walls. Three paces to the rear, and the narrow tunnels suddenly became his best ally, because only two of the Fallen could approach him at a time, and Mercitus' shield could be used to best effect. The unarmored monsters would be defenseless against him.

Yet still they came, two by two, and Mercitus retreated before them, backing up and deflecting their blows with rod and shield until the tunnel was tightly packed with the Fallen. Even as the frontmost demon pulled his scimitar back for another swing, Mercitus suddenly shifted his posture and slammed the Fallen in the face with his shield, forcing it back. While it was stunned, Mercitus stepped in and spun in a circle, slamming his scepter into the front rank, crushing their skulls. With a shriek of fear, the second rank turned to flee, only to be hemmed in by their fellows, and Mercitus dispatched them with two more swings.

Total panic gripped the Fallen as the paladin charged forward, using weapon and shield interchangeably to deliver crushing blows. None could resist more than a single strike, and they were killed one by one as they tried to scramble out of the tunnel. By the time Mercitus had made it back to the open cavern, his shield and weapon were drenched in demon blood and behind him lay a half-score of battered bodies. The two surviving Fallen were crouched at the feet of the pale woman, cowering. The shaman was off by the other fire pit, chanting some foul spell. Mercitus made a split second decision and charged towards the shaman, pounding his boots against the hard dirt, but even as he brought the scepter back for a killing strike, he felt a great blow under his arm and was nearly knocked off his feet.

Before he could recover, the pale woman was on him, swinging a crude hatchet in one hand and a long slender dagger in the other. She flicked the dagger at his face to distract him even as she tried to hack out his knees with the axe. Taken aback by the ferocity of the attack, Mercitus barely deflected the axe blow with his shield, and pulled away with a long shallow cut along his cheekbone.

There was a shuddering burst of black magic, and there was a shriek of agony from behind the paladin. Mercitus spared the woman his focus for a split second to glance back, and was sickened to see one of the Fallen he had killed rise from the earth. It's neck was still cracked, and the little demon held its head at an unnatural angle, but it seemed otherwise unaffected and it grabbed a crude spear from the dirt at its feet and started running towards his back. The other two demons seemed to be heartened by their comrade's resurrection, and began running towards the fray as well.

"Thou defiler of life," Mercitus ground out between his teeth. "This shall be thy last day, I do so swear." With redoubled effort, Mercitus parried another dagger strike, and when the woman came down to hack at his knees again, he was ready and slammed his knee into her unarmored belly. As she doubled over, he bashed her in the head with his shield with a wet crunch.

The Fallen shaman fled around the fire when the woman went down, snarling out another profane spell even as it dodged away from the enraged paladin. Another dead Fallen staggered to its feet with a gurgling moan. Mercitus found himself suddenly surrounded by the Fallen again, forming a living – well, two were living and two were in some kind of half-life – wall between him and the shaman. They jabbed their spears at him to keep him at bay, chattering in their own harsh tongue.

Mercitus stared at them in contempt. The adrenaline rush and the divine might made him reckless, and he simply blasted into the group with his shield up, crushing one and scattering the others like tenpins. The shaman pulled out a curved knife and slashed at him, but it was deflected by his armor, and the little monster didn't have a chance for a second attempt. The heavy gem at the end of the scepter crushed its skull.

The three remaining Fallen screamed in rage and despair and charged him, but they fought him individually, giving Mercitus the chance to dispatch them one by one. When it was over, the paladin dropped to his knees in the center of the camp, exhausted. He let the Might fade from him, and his arms were suddenly screaming at him, exhaustion numbing his fingers to the point that he almost dropped his scepter. Taking great gulps of air, Mercitus slowly ransacked the camp, destroying the crude altar and scattering ashes over the demonic graffiti painted on the walls.

As he approached the final fire pit, however, there was a stirring at his feet. The dark woman clutched at his boot and tried to stab him in the ankle with her dagger. Mercitus tore his foot from the woman's grip and kicked her in the stomach, pulling out his weapon. With a defeated moan, the woman rolled over on to her back and lay there, barely breathing. Her face was in ruins, her nose and jaw shattered and misshapen, and one eye was swollen shut. The other eye had no iris or white showing, and was entirely black. It glared up at him with unwavering hatred, glittering in the torchlight.

"Who are you?" the paladin asked coldly.

He was surprised that she attempted to reply. "Ah… 'er… anaheeal…" she gasped through her shattered jaw.

"I'm never going to get answers from you while you're like this," Mercitus said unhappily. "Fine." Calling up the power of his faith, Mercitus knelt beside the woman and coursed healing power through the woman's body, pinning the woman's arms to her body so she couldn't strike at him.

The psalm of healing was the simplest and most basic of all of Zakarum's teachings, and the first thing any initiate learned. Mercitus had used it hundreds of times. But never had he experienced a reaction like this woman's. While pinning the woman down, Mercitus thought he saw the first flash of something other than madness and hatred in the woman's eye… a flash of pure, blind panic. The woman started to scream, tearing her jaw farther as she howled as if she was being tormented.

Even as he watched her, the black film over the woman's eye started to fade, and then a bright blue eye, stained with tears, stared back at him. For a brief second, the woman stopped resisting his grip and shuddered as if in the grip of a terrible fever.

"Kill… me…" she gasped through bloodied lips, but then the shuddering faded, the blackness rose again to cover her vision, and Mercitus felt the healing power of his faith snap back at him as if the woman somehow _rejected_ the divine power.

"By the Light," Mercitus swore. The woman's thrashing became more impassioned and she bent down to try to bite his arm, broken jaw notwithstanding. "What have they _done_ to you?"

_She is **mine** now…_ A voice whispered in the back of his mind, menacing and seductive, filled with the promise of every want fulfilled, but also with the promise of unendurable torment. "Her soul is her own!" Mercitus shouted to the tunnel, in defiance of the Voice. "And this body is now only a prison…"

He knew what he had to do. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but Mercitus pulled his scepter out of his belt and smashed it into her head as hard as he could. The woman died without a sound, and Mercitus could _swear_ that he saw the ghostly glimmer of her spirit escaping the ruined body, escaping to the spiritual plane.

Only when he rolled off of the body did Mercitus get an inkling of his own injuries. The slash on his cheek burned, and there were numerous other gashes and minor wounds all along his legs and arms. His ringmail seemed to have held up against the abuse thus far, and Mercitus thanked the Light for his protection.

The accumulated aches and pains were enough that he counted himself fortunate to find a satchel on the shaman that contained three crimson healing potions. He drank one of the tiny vials and sighed in relief as he felt the throbbing pain of his injuries slowly fade into a dull ache. The other two he tucked into his belt.

He was even more delighted to find a slightly battered steel skullcap in the pile of junk he'd accumulated. He checked it over briefly, and then donned the helmet before devoting his attention to the rest of the loot. Most of the equipment was battered and useless, but a small bag of gold was added to the paladin's stockpile before the search was through.

The healing potion had gone a long way towards curing Mercitus of his fatigue, but his body still protested when it was ordered to shoulder its load and head deeper into the darkness. Though their camp had been destroyed, there was still a small tribe of the Fallen hiding in the caves, not to mention more of the walking dead. The paladin could _feel_ some kind of malevolent intelligence waiting for him, deeper in the darkness.

He would not leave until his duty was done.

* * *

Author's Note 2: Stay tuned next time for our first named monster, **Corpsefire**! 

In response to the quasi-Latin I'm using for the hymns... the words are _supposed_ to mean something like this, though I admit that I don't have my old textbooks to use as a reference, so I apologize for the errors.

_…Dominus vis est meus,_ (The Lord is my strength,)

_Victorius triumphantque. _(Victorious and triumphant.)

_Depugnamus in nomen Tuum, _(We will carry on the fight in Your name)  
_Ferri mei Tuos sunt…_(And my weapons are for You)

I understand that Ferri is also a form of averb, which probably where the confusion came from, but in this case it is just the nominative plural of _ferrus_, which means iron, often a symbol for "blade or weapon." This is similar to theEnglishexpression "draw steel," which means to draw a blade, or "to pump him full of lead" means to fill him full of bullets. Also, _Tuos _is the accusative case instead of the genitive because it indicates purpose rather than possession.

Wow, I'm such a nerd.

- Talyn


	7. Maiden of Pain

Chapter 5: Maiden of Pain 

The tunnels that wound beneath the black earth seemed to grow ever more hostile as he found himself going deeper and deeper. Mercitus gripped the handle of his scepter tightly, eyeing the shadows between the wall-mounted torches. The carrion reek of the newly dead was growing stronger even as the light from the guttering torches dimmed.

Twice already he had come upon small groups of Fallen, though with without a shaman or other leader, they were barely more than a nuisance. Indeed, Mercitus was surprised that they stood and fought at all, rather than scattering, like they usually did, when confronted by one capable of fighting back. Instead, they had all charged him and fought to the death – a quick death, usually, handed out at the head of the paladin's scepter – and Mercitus began to wonder what power drove them on that they were more afraid of _it_ than of _him_.

_Their mistake_, he thought with a grim satisfaction, wiping blood from the head of the scepter with a rag.

Pausing a moment to take stock of his situation, Mercitus was suddenly struck by how still and silent everything was. There was no sound at all except for the occasional pop and crackle from a torch and his own breathing – and no movement except the dance of the shadows. _Even the rats have abandoned this place_, he realized, though they had been thick underfoot up on the higher levels, living off of the scraps and refuse of the Fallen.

When the eerie, warbling cry of a Brute echoed through the tunnels, Mercitus nearly jumped out of his skin. It was a matter of an instant to draw the scepter from his belt and turn to face the source of the sound, but Mercitus was caught off guard – somehow the lumbering beast had snuck up on him, its movements more sure and silent than the paladin anticipated from a monster so large.

Mercitus didn't even have time to curse himself for becoming so distracted before he was slammed in the stomach by the Brute's two fists and thrown into the earthen wall of the tunnel. There was a shower of dirt and stones from the impact, and Mercitus flopped to the ground, gasping for breath. The torch flew out of the paladin's hand and guttered weakly on the floor, casting the whole room into flickering red-gold shadows.

_Rib cracked_, he realized. _Can't see straight, either._ Then the Brute was on him, slamming into the dirt with its fists and stomping at him. Mercitus' shield absorbed most of the blows, but he was forced to scramble away from the beast's legs. Finally, he managed to lash out with his scepter and catch the monster in the thigh – a weak blow, but one that forced the Brute back a few steps so that Mercitus could stagger to his feet.

The Brute gave another wail, and this time there were responses from deeper into the tunnels, and Mercitus felt a frisson of real fear. He blinked his eyes to focus them, and raised his weapon in defiance. The beast set itself like a wrestler, its hands wide and outstretched, looking to get around the shield and pound the relatively puny human into paste.

They circled each other for a moment, but then the paladin saw movement in the shadows behind him and knew that he'd need to act quickly or he'd be overwhelmed. He stepped inside the Brute's guard and struck hard and fast, and the scepter made a meaty "thunk" when it hit the Brute's overmuscled chest. Mercitus stepped outside the beast's reach and waited for it to fall, but it stayed on its feet – the paladin's injuries had cost him the speed and strength he'd needed to end the fight in one blow.

Instead, it howled in pain and punched him again, the shock of the impact on his shield sending waves of blinding pain through Mercitus. He gasped for breath and almost fell again, his knees shaking. The sharp coppery tang of blood was on his tongue. Still, in the attack, the beast had left himself open, and Mercitus was quick to spot that weakness. When it swung at him again, he stepped aside and spun with the momentum of the blow, coming full circle and slamming the jeweled head of the rod into the Brute's skull, killing it.

Even as the hairy monster twitched in the dirt, Mercitus turned again to see the lumbering shapes of two more of the Brutes come out of the darkness, and behind them a small band of the Fallen. The ringing in his ears reminded him of the cathedral bells, but the Zakarumite stood straight and tall and defiant. Mercitus spat blood into the dust and bared his crimson-stained teeth at the mass of demons.

The Fallen quailed away from the paladin, cowering behind the Brutes. The Brutes seemed unimpressed however, and simply howled their hatred and bloodlust and strode towards him. Mercitus struggled to raise his shield, the cracked rib robbing him of his breath, his eyes refusing to focus, the overused muscles in his arms afire with pain.

The first Brute to come within reach was careless and Mercitus was quick to shatter the beast's knee with his scepter and then put it out of the fight entirely with a shield bash to the face. The second, however, simply grabbed the paladin in its huge arms and crushed him to it in a deadly bear hug. The pain from his ribs nearly overwhelmed Mercitus as he was lifted from the ground, but he had no breath left with which to cry out.

The paladin was dimly aware of a ragged cheer rising up from the mob of Fallen. The dark tunnels grew blacker as his vision began to fade around the edges. Even when he managed to gasp for breath, the cold air burned his lungs like fire.

He realized that he was going to die, alone and in pain in these tunnels, his duty incomplete. _The monsters would keep coming from beneath the earth until the rogues were overwhelmed… there would be no safe place to run anymore, no haven for the refugees I had shepherded._

He still had a grip on the scepter, though his arms were pinned at his side. Gritting his teeth, he fought against the Brute's grip. Every shallow gasp made him want to scream in agony, but it kept the blackness on the edge of his vision at bay.

_The kingdoms of the West will be isolated, cut off from one another…until they are dragged down into oblivion in storms in blood and fire. Laughter will die, and soon after even the weeping will be silenced. Amalia's better world will turn to ashes._

Mercitus had sworn an oath to be Amalia's champion as long as he drew breath – and she and the rogues were counting on him now. Dying right now would be easy. _But I've still got more to do. _Blood and sweat ran into his eyes. _Focus_, he commanded himself. _That better world won't die on my watch._

The paladin opened his mind to the spiritual plane fully. Madness and evil rose up from the very earth around him, threatening to drown his soul, and Mercitus felt himself begin to get sucked in. Resisting the sweet pull of madness and death, he brought to the fore of his mind images of the rogues – Kashya's implacable resolve, Akara's compassion, and Amalia's irrepressible hope for a world full of light and laughter. They kept the dark power of the tunnels at bay, and allowed him to cast his spirit Heavenward, seeking his strength.

"The Light is my strength," he ground out through blood-stained teeth. He felt the gentle tug of holy power from the scepter, and he leaned on it. "Victorious and unconquered!"

_It is not the will of the Light that I fall here,_ Mercitus promised himself. "I carry on the fight in Your name," he shouted, smashing his helmeted head into the Brute's bestial face. It let out a cry of pain and surprise, and its grip loosened enough for Mercitus to reach into his belt and pull out a healing potion.

"My blades are Yours!" he hissed, crushing the cap on the vial and bringing it to his mouth.

The Fallen chattered in dismay all about him as he dragged himself from the Brute's grip and wound up on his back in the dirt and blood of the cavern floor. They tried to rush him while he was down, but Mercitus had his breath back – their scimitars couldn't penetrate the shield and mail, and the paladin's scepter ended their lives one by one. Even when the mortal muscles swinging the scepter had failed him, the Light kept them moving, putting holy power behind each of his blows. Finally, the survivors broke and scattered into the shadows, and Mercitus was left alone in the chamber, with blood, both that of the demons and those of his own, turning the dirt and dust of the floor in a vile mud.

He staggered and almost fell, leaning against the cave wall as he whispered the words of the healing psalm over and over again until his the crippling pain eased to bearable and his spiritual reserve was exhausted. Mercitus blinked twice, pleased not to be seeing double, and wearily bent to retrieve his torch. Grimacing in distaste, he rifled through the dead bodies, and found nothing with which he'd consider burdening himself.

It was several more minutes until Mercitus felt well enough to continue. A second healing potion went a long way towards mending the cracked rib, but the paladin resisted the temptation to quaff a third – as long as he could fight unhindered, he'd best save his precious cache. Only the Light knew when his situation would again become dire.

He leaned against the tunnel wall, eyeing the narrow descent. When he took his first step, and the aches abruptly sharpened, the paladin halted, his nerve almost failing him. Even as he forced himself to take another step down, doubts began to assail him. What was he doing, plunging deeper into this foul hole? The smell of death was growing with every step, and the unnatural chill was beginning to sap his strength. How many more times would the Light allow him to cheat death? Was this the end he wanted, hacked to death and his body desecrated, or worse, corrupted to rise again as one of the undead?

_So young, and so alone, _a voice seemed to whisper in his ear. _Sent away by a Church that did not desire thee, to die, forgotten, in a strange land. What loyalty dost thou owe to such a temple? Thou, who hast already done so much._

_There is no need to sacrifice thyself needlessly. Turn thee back._

"I swore an oath to help the Rogues," Mercitus said aloud. "I cannot turn my back on Duty, no matter what the cost to myself."

_Duty_, the Voice said dismissively. _Duty is owed only to the worthy. What have the Rogues done for thee? They failed even to properly reward thee for the rescue of the farmers. They dismissed thy pain and sacrifice, mocked thee, and then sent thee out to die where they themselves feared to tread._

"That's… that is not how it went. I came to this place to help them, because they had already sacrificed so much…"

The Voice seemed to grow even more scornful. _The witch woman used and then abandoned thee. Just like the Church. Never has anyone treated thee with the respect and honor that is thy due. Always they ask thee for more and grant thee less and less._

"A Knight of Zakarum does not fight for any temporal reward or fleeting earthly honor, but for the rewards of the spirit," Mercitus rejoined, the formulaic words a comforting protection against the confusion and doubt. He took another step deeper into the darkness, holding his torch before him and keeping his scepter at the ready.

_Hollow words, written a thousand years ago by a man who had never faced the horrors that lie before you. A Knight is still a man. Still he must desire the regards of his fellow man, and the comforts of luxury and companionship._

"I have no such desires," Mercitus whispered to the darkness. Yet he knew it to be a lie. Images rose up unbidden in his mind of his former traveling companion, dancing before him as the firelight flickered over her flesh… then Amalia was kneeling at his feet, her clothes and armor discarded, worshipping him with her body. Her skin was pale, her eyes black and empty, an empty plaything for him to do with as he desired. This, then, was to be his reward…

_This is what you deserve, you brave man, for all that you have given and all that you will become. _The Voice was quiet, insistent, and growing excited, becoming thick with passion. _This is what I can give you… a reward that those heartless puritans in the Church and those weakling Rogues could never provide, and would withhold even if they could. All you need to do is throw away that tabard and that cross, and agree to serve me. It would be so easy._

"Easy," Mercitus whispered, leaning against the stone wall as the ache of old wounds threatened to drag him off his feet.

The young paladin breathed as deeply as his bruised ribs would allow, inhaling the foul chill of the cave. Finally, he grasped the silver cross slung on his belt, and held it up before his eyes, where is reflected the torchlight. It was slightly tarnished from his long campaign, and flecked with mud and blood, but it was still unbent and still beautiful. _Light, be with me now_, Mercitus prayed. "You were foolish in your offer, Voice," Mercitus told the darkness around him. "You offered me rest and stagnation when what I wanted was progress. You offered me dominion when what I wanted was peace! And, finally, you _shadow-spawned Bitch_, you offered me the beauty of that woman's body when what I desired was the beauty of her soul."

Still gripping the Cross of Zakarum before his eyes, Mercitus once again stood straight, his voice thundering with conviction. "And so I abjure thee, Voice, thou whorish whisper of darkness, and I command thee back to whatever pit that thou callest home – for if ye stay here, the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye will lead me to thy lair and I shall end thy foul existence forever!"

For a brief second, there was nothing, and then the paladin's torch flickered and nearly went out as the Voice sounded one last time, no longer a seductive whisper but an enraged shriek. _So be it, thou foolish son of clay! I offered thee pleasure and ease beyond compare, and thou hast chosen to refute me and insult me, and now I shall offer thee nothing but Death! Bring your righteous wrath and the aid of your weakling women to me and I shall extinguish you forever – for I am ANDARIEL, and I am the Maiden of Pain!_

The aftereffects of the demoness' shriek still resounded in Mercitus' head when an eldritch, blue light began to shine from far down the passage, deeper within the fouled earth. The unnatural chill in the air grew more and more numbing, and the deep-throated moans of the walking dead began to echo in the tunnels, coming from all directions.

Mercitus planted his torch in a root on the earthen wall, and drew forth his scepter and shield. "So be it," he told the darkness as he awaited the oncoming mob.


End file.
